


Study in Red Dust

by JadeyKins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Mars!au, SciFi!AU, draws on Study in Pink, meeting for the first time fic, written more ACD style
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-10 17:23:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4400738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadeyKins/pseuds/JadeyKins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the somewhat distant future, Earth begins to settle the planet Mars. Dr. John Watson decides after his retirement from military service to join the colonists. An old friend sets John up with a roommate interview. Now if only Sherlock Holmes would answer the damn door…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Study in Red Dust

I stood on the verge of entering the Baker 221 compound and checked my communicator for my appointment details yet again. A thin, red-dust haze was coming on and in no time I’d be stranded in the middle of the storm if my potential companion did not arrive. I decided that I’d have to thank Stamford for arranging an interview with the least punctual person in the settlement. The dust was kicking up stronger now. I could survive a few minutes more than most, but I wasn’t going to risk burning out a few of my implants by having dirt ground into them. I’d have to seek shelter in one of the public underground caverns.

Just as I turned away from the door, I heard it click open and an older woman called out, “Get in already, dear!”

I hurried inside the door and she promptly closed it behind me. Before I had a chance to explain myself, she took a handvac from a hook on the wall and set to gathering the red dirt gathered in my hair. ‘Dusting the visitor’ is a custom in the Martian colonies, but one to which I was still unaccustomed. I must have had a ghastly rude expression on my face because the old woman sized me and scowled at me. I was about to beg for forgiveness when she said, “Now, I won’t be doing that for you every time you come through the door, understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, hoping that I wasn’t betraying too much of my confusion.

She nodded in satisfaction and motioned that I follow her further into the complex. She was an interesting sort with her wild curls and dark leather duster. While the women of Mars have become the leaders of most colonies, they tend not to develop the over-flowing, gushy sort of behavior one will find in the behaviors of politicians back on Earth. Perhaps because they do less negotiating—but more probably because they simply lack the time—the Martians aim for the blunt truth of matters. Many of the women I’ve met have embraced this idea, and I dare think that they’d frighten Earth men. But then, they care not what Earth men think. And why should they? The new immigrants to the colonies can either ‘alter their subroutines or harness a Bolishnik ram’—the colloquial for ‘accept and integrate, or go home.’ 

“I assume you’re here to see Sherlock, dear,” she said, her earlier brusqueness shifting into a pleasant demeanor. 

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh, stop that, you’ll make me feel old!” she chuckled. “I really must tell Sherlock that he can’t leave visitors out in a storm like this. So rude when you’re expected!”

“I’m sorry, but I haven’t caught your name.”

“That’s my fault. I’m excited you see, only just arrived back before the storm myself. I’m Mrs. Hudson and I’m in charge of the facility.”

The hallway opened into a large recreational area. Martians are fond of creating parks inside their habitation compounds. This one had a modest green space and a strong, clear ceiling. Already the red dirt was flying past the window at top speeds. I had perhaps risked standing outside too long. Mrs. Hudson sighed heavily in that way only caretakers can manage. “Fifteen people in the compound, you’d think one of them could hit the shield from time to time! But no, I’ve got to do it myself each time.” She pressed a button beside the door way and a metallic shutter covered the glass window. “Do you have any questions for me, dear?”

I had only the one question for her, but relaying it has always caused me some discomfort. Though a sensible inquiry, I am not particularly fond of recalling my reasons for remembering to ask. I had my hands clasped behind my back from an old military habit and I cleared my throat. “You are connected to the emergency tunnels, correct?”

“We’ve four exits. One is right next to Suite B.”

“Excellent.”

“Do you mind my asking, but I can’t place your accent.”

“I’m from the actual London, Mrs. Hudson.” I’d almost called her ma’am again and I doubted that my recovery was that acceptable.

She rolled her eyes at me and lightly tapped my arm. “You Earth-lings always looking at us like we’re some sort of monkeys for using the old names! People settling here liked to be reminded of home. I remember when it was very fashionable to retool the public spaces to look like early 20th century Earth. Imagine bothering to make everything seem so old!” She laughed and led me on to a door that had a large black B on it. Without even ringing a doorbell—for when one is expected at a Martian home, one simply walks through the door—she slapped the door control and it whooshed open for us.

We stepped into short hall that had additional handvacs, though dust covered the entry hall. A dirty, thick duster hung on the closet rod and muddy boot prints went into the living room. I’ve too many manners for these colonists sometimes—while Mrs. Hudson continued to barge in, I stopped long enough to hang my jacket and knock the worst of the dust from my jeans. I also resolved right there that I would have to acquire more suitable attire before too much longer. 

Mrs. Hudson glanced back for me and said, “Not too much use in that, dear. No matter how many times I beg him to tidy up, he simply refuses. I hope that won’t damper your attitude of the place.”

“It would give me something to do, wouldn’t it?” I joked, badly. I’m afraid I’m not a very amusing man, though I do try. My attempt at humor soundly dismissed by Mrs. Hudson, I wandered into the suite’s living room.

It was larger than the others I’d seen, which made the rent price even more impressive to me. A few old leather chairs hung about near the far wall and a bland blue couch occupied space beside me. A short hall to my left provided access to the kitchen, bathroom, and both bedrooms. My potential flatmate was in the kitchen. Since he seemed master of the space, I assumed he must be Sherlock Holmes.

He had a mess of dark curls that were almost solid red from the amount of dirt caked into them. His shirt-sleeves were rolled up and the cloth was sweat-stained and dusty as well. The same matter coated his face, except for a pattern around his eyes which indicated he had been wearing goggles. I sincerely believed that he hadn’t even seen Mrs. Hudson and I because his focus was on a pan of dirt and rocks before him. He had on a set of high-optic glasses—the sort I’d only seen worn by security officers before. 

“Sherlock, you left him waiting at the door,” Mrs. Hudson complained.

“He’s obviously found his way in.”

“There was a storm coming on!”

“Is, Mrs. Hudson. You can hear it if you try.”

He was right. The wind created the barest whisper of noise in the safety of the compound, but when we were all still and quiet, it was audible.

“Still, it’s not polite.”

Sherlock raised his gaze with a huff. “I’m sorry, Dr. Watson, for neglecting you.”

His eyes were the shade of a green sea when he first looked into mine, but as we stared at each other for a moment too long, they became the color of winter storm. I had of course heard those legends of cybernetic eyes which were capable of changing thus, and I wondered what else he could see with them. And how he’d came to have them. When he dropped his focus back down to the pan, I realized that I’d been holding my breath a bit.

“Mark III or Mark IV?” he asked.

“Sorry?”

“Your left leg. I only ask because the dust storms will eventually wear out the Mark III.”

I glanced at Mrs. Hudson, but she seemed as surprised as I that he was asking about my leg. I cleared my throat again to ease my discomfort and give me a moment to think. After all, my leg was none of the man’s business. “Mark IV.”

“Good. I’d hate for it to start creaking in three months’ time.”

“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed. Apparently not all Martians are bereft of manners.

Sherlock only rolled his eyes—a gesture I endeavored not find endearing in the slightest—and said, “Apologies again, Dr. Watson. Though I must say, our living together will become quite tedious if I am constantly begging your forgiveness.”

“It’s all right, though you are making a rather large assumption that I’ll take the spare room.”

He smiled and seemed much like a content cat, he had that much confidence. “You’ve already perused a handful of places. Mine’s by far the nicest for the price, which is a reasonable amount, especially for someone new to the planet.”

I folded my arms over my chest. “How on—” The old colloquialism wouldn’t work here. “How on Mars did you know that?”

“You observed the living room for far too long, you nodded when you found the place pleasing, and you made a joke about the dirt as if you notice it, but I’m guessing that you served in a place filthier than this since it didn’t bother you.”

“All of that leads you to an assumption, not a sustainable argument,” I pointed out.

“Accurate, Dr. Watson, but you also haven’t said that you wouldn’t take the place.”

I wasn’t sure what to make of his cocky attitude. It was one part attractive and one part infuriating. “Perhaps I should take a look at the room before deciding.”

“The one at the end of the hall, unless you absolutely require that I switch.”

“I wouldn’t ask that.” I checked the room and found it adequate. Luckily it was already furnished. I had no funds with which to procure furniture of my own. 

When I came back to the kitchen, I discovered that Mrs. Hudson had left and Sherlock was devoted to the study of his pan. Once again, I believed that his attention was devoted to the pan before him, but he surprised me by saying, “I play the violin at odd hours or pace through the suite all night long. Also, I will often fill the kitchen with my experiments.”

“Well, hopefully you leave a little room for cooking.”

He scrutinized me again. “I don’t believe you’re familiar with kitchens.”

“I might take up a new skill.”

“Because you’re out of work at the moment.”

“Do you have a file on me or something?” I asked. I had no idea how he could know so much about me so quickly.

“Honestly, that last statement was a guess, though not a hard one. The last arrival to Mars was five days ago, you chose this colony over the others even though we already have plenty of doctors here. You must have a relative close by, or you must be escaping them to come to a town where you have no current employment.”

“Escaping,” I said and left it at that. “I’m afraid it’s terribly unfair that you’ve deduced so much of me and I know nothing of you.”

“Even Mrs. Hudson finds me a tragic mystery,” he mused. “But perhaps you’ll have better luck living with me than she has in being the caretaker.”

“Do you need a caretaker?” I joked. I had in mind the mess he had left in the hall and his desire to fill a kitchen with experiments rather than food. 

“My brother might argue that I do.” His voice trailed off as if his concentration had suddenly flown away from our conversation. He had dropped his gaze once more to the pan before him. 

I longed to ask him what he was doing, but my polite sensibilities were still intact. When he appeared to have no interest in my presence, I coughed and muttered something useless about getting my things. I believed that he’d ignored me entirely until he waved a hand at the wall. “You’re forgetting, John. The storm.”

“Ah. Yes. I suppose that does put a damper on things.”

Sherlock nodded only once—those dark curls bouncing ridiculously—and went back to intensely staring. I assumed his enhanced eyes and optic glasses were giving him more data than my simplistic vision could. All I saw were a heap of rocks. However, I had little else to do until the storm passed. I approached the table and gazed into the pan as well. It was like hovering over his shoulder and terribly rude of me to do, but I was already growing bored with the silence and the storm might take a long time to pass. In a low, droning voice, Sherlock asked, “Do you know anything of geology?”

“None. And even less of Mars.”

“Curious that you would move to a planet that primarily deals with mining.”

“As you’ve already noted, I am a doctor.”

“In a colony that has no need of one.”

“I’ve discovered there is always room for one more doctor.”

“That may be true, John, however, you’ll find little money in it.”

“Money doesn’t seem to play an important part out here. I have rations, the government will give me funds for the rent, what more does one need beside food and lodging?”

“Typically something to do, else the boredom becomes increasingly tedious.” Sherlock lifted off his glasses and handed them out to me. “Tell me what you see.”

I placed the glasses on and immediately lost track of the visual world. The computer displays were intense and I had only operated specialized lenses intended for surgery. These were running spectrums on everything that I saw. Sherlock had an extra chemical in his hair, some sort of product to protect the curls, and the countertop had traces of a sugar compound. Details were flicking across my vision no matter what direction I looked and I had to take them off before a headache overwhelmed me. “You can make sense out of that?”

“It only takes a little patience. Put them on again when you’re already looking into the pan.”

He seemed keen and I had nothing better to do. I did as he instructed, this time only having the pan’s contents before my eyes. Various compounds registered and several elements. “They’re rocks.”

“Keep looking.”

I frowned. Something wasn’t quite right about the formulas. “Fake rocks?”

Sherlock snatched back the glasses and losing them so suddenly was almost as disorienting as wearing them. “Correct. Now, I found these in the back of a mine. They claim to hold trace amounts of copper, therefore giving the mine a high value in these parts.”

“Increasing the government aid, too, I Imagine.”

“Correct again, John. They want people on Mars, and the first way to lure them is with work. The government gives money to the corporations in a hope that they will drag more people out here.”

“But money is a limited commodity. The corporations that drag the most settlers out here will get more aid from the government.”

“Very good, John.”

It was a bit strange how he kept complimenting me with my name, though I must admit a small pleasure in hearing it so frequently. Forgive me, dear readers, too long had passed since the last time I had had a civil conversation with an intelligent, attractive person. “So are you working for the government then?”

“Heavens no! I consult for the local security team.”

If I were Martian, I may have pointed out to him that was essentially employment with the government. However, I decided not to rain on his pride. “And that pays well?”

Sherlock smiled wolfishly. “Like yourself, I find little need for financial compensation. I have a roof over my head and rations for food. What I enjoy is the challenge of a good puzzle.”

“And a pile of rocks was the puzzle?”

“Only the end result.”

I frowned, for I had no clue how the pile in the pan was the solution to much of anything besides corporate fraud. “This seems an awfully simplistic puzzle.” 

I think I offended the man with that response, reader. He scowled at me for a good three seconds and I momentarily believed that I would not be allowed to rent the spare room after all. As I floundered to find an apology, he rolled his eyes and slid off his stool. “That is because you were not here at the beginning of the case.”

“The storm is still raging. We have some time,” I said in hopes of suggesting that he might tell me the tale.

He regarded me for a long moment. Still, I thought for sure I would find myself out in the common area until the end of the red dust clouds because his look was so severe. I couldn’t help awkwardly smiling at him—for that is my custom when trying so hard to appease another. He must have found my demeanor appropriately apologetic, for he waved a hand at the set of leather chairs and murmured, “I’ll fetch refreshment and give you the details.”

Happy to be back in his good graces, I took a seat in one of the comfortable leather chairs and eagerly awaited my roommate’s adventure.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally this meant to have a part two, but unfortunately I think it's going to stay just as it is.


End file.
